


Merry Christmas, Ben

by TessAlyn



Category: Midsomer Murders - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Christmas Smut, Cold Weather, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Male Slash, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-09 01:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19879420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TessAlyn/pseuds/TessAlyn
Summary: It's Christmastime and Ben's depressed. Luckily, John is there to help.





	1. Chapter 1

Ben was in a rotten mood. It had been a rotten week. Actually, a rotten year. He scowled into the bottom of his whiskey glass, debating whether he should order another. He was technically off duty, unless of course Barnaby decided to call him in for some ridiculous reason. Grave needs digging up? Ben’s your man. Interview a suspect at two o’ clock in the morning? Ben can do that, no worries. Let’s give all the dirty, thankless work to Ben, he won’t mind. He has nothing better to do.

A young couple came into the pub, giggling and hanging onto one another, covered with snow and cheeks red with cold. Ben glared at them. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he have that? It wasn’t like he was hideously unattractive or had a terrible personality. It was the bloody job, that was it. No one wanted to date a police sergeant, with the shitty pay and even shittier hours. It was all right for John, he’d already married the most beautiful woman in the entire world and she thought he was the cat’s pajamas. It just wasn’t fair.

Ben rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Another please,” he muttered. 

“You sure, mate?” the bartender said, his face grave. “You’ve barely finished that one.”

“Well, that’s my business, isn’t it?” Ben said irritably, tossing down another fiver. “Keep the change.”

The bartender shrugged and poured him another whiskey. Ben drank half of it in one gulp. He was going to regret this in the morning, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. It was two days before Christmas, and he was sitting alone in a pub at four o’ clock in the afternoon getting drunk off his arse. Fantastic way to celebrate the dear Savior’s birth.

He finished off his glass, then rose to his feet rather unsteadily. “Where’s your callbox?” he asked the bartender.

“Next to the loo.”

Ben wasn’t sure how he made it without knocking something over. His head hurt, his mouth felt dry, and his vision was starting to blur. Time to go home to his pathetic little flat, with nothing to eat but leftover Indian takeout that had probably gone bad by now. His fingers felt thick and clumsy as he lifted the receiver off the hook. Then he stared stupidly at the dial, trying to remember the number for the local taxi service. Was it 5192 or 5912?  _ Blast it, Jones, pull yourself together. You’re not that drunk yet. _

Ben shook himself. “5192, you idiot,” he mumbled, and punched in the number. Then he slumped against the wood paneled wall, feeling suddenly exhausted.

The phone rang twice and then a strangely familiar voice spoke. “Barnaby.”

Ben’s brain screeched to a halt. Had he actually dialed his commanding officer? And at his home, no less?  _ Christ, you really are a fucking idiot. _

“Sorry,” he slurred. “Wrong number.”

“Ben?” John’s voice sounded very far away. “Ben, is that you?”

“No,” he said, then snorted with laughter. “Fuck, I just gave it away.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Fucking sloshed, actually. I was trying to call a taxi. I must have rung you instead.”

“I see,” John said. There was a long pause. “Are you all right?”

He couldn’t help it— a bitter laugh tore out of his throat. “Am I all right?” he repeated. “Well, I’m in a pub, drinking alone, two days before Christmas. What do you think?”

“Which pub is it?”

“What bloody difference does it make?”

“Just tell me where you are, Jones.”

“The Cat and Bagpipes.”

“Right,” John said briskly. “Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”

“What?” Ben said, sure he’d misheard. “You’re doing what?”

“I’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t move.” And before Ben could utter a single word of protest, he rang off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben makes another stupid decision... good thing John's a detective and can track down his dumb ass.

John wasn’t there in five minutes. He wasn’t there in ten, either. After fifteen minutes had gone by, Ben’s patience had run out.

“If Inspector Barnaby comes here looking for me, tell him I went home,” he told the bartender, clumsily pulling on his coat.

“Best take a cab, young man. It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.”

“It’s all right, I live just up the road,” Ben lied, and stumbled out the door.

After a couple minutes trudging through the slush by the side of the road, Ben began to regret his decision. The wind whipped against his face, making the inside of his nose burn each time he took a breath. He did his best to cover up with his scarf, but the thin wool wasn’t enough to block out the frigid wind. His coat wasn’t doing much, either. Within just a few minutes he was shivering uncontrollably and his toes were beginning to go numb. Another few and he couldn’t feel his ears.

Dimly, he heard the sound of an approaching car, and shifted to the side to let it pass. But it didn’t— the car pulled up beside him and Ben heard the driver shout something at him.

“Bugger off,” he muttered, turning his face away from the bright headlights.

The car door slammed, and he heard feet crunching in the snow behind him. Then someone grabbed hold of his arm. Ben tried to jerk away, but the stranger’s grip was too strong. He was speaking, but Ben’s brain was too foggy to understand the words. All he knew was that he was cold, and tired. Christ, he was so tired... he just wanted to go home and sleep.

“Leave me alone,” he mumbled. “I just want to go home, all right? Leave me alone.”

The man must not have heard him, because Ben suddenly realized he was being dragged towards the car. He struggled, but his arms didn’t seem to be working properly. They felt like lead weights. So tired…

The man spoke close to his ear, speaking in a low, soothing voice, and Ben finally surrendered. He let the man gently ease him into the passenger seat, and then he felt the glorious warmth of the heater blast over his half-frozen feet. It felt so good that tears sprang to his eyes. The stranger put something heavy on top of him— a blanket, yes, it was a lovely warm quilted blanket— and Ben let out a moan of gratitude.

He heard the car door slam shut, and after a moment, the driver’s door opened and the man got in. The car began to move slowly down the road, easing over the bumps and ruts, and Ben felt himself start to drift off.

Finally they stopped, and the stranger—  _ was _ he really a stranger? His voice sounded so familiar— helped him out of the car, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and let Ben up a set of front steps. A set of keys jingled, a door creaked open, and then they were inside a warm, cozy room. Ben glanced down at the floor and saw a little black and white spotted dog dancing around their feet, tail wagging furiously.

“Sykes?” Ben mumbled. “What’re you doing here, Sykes?”

“He lives here, you prat,” the stranger said.

Slowly, Ben raised his head and got his first good look at his rescuer. It wasn’t a stranger. It was John— wonderful, sweet, lovely John, his handsome face wrinkled up with concern as he guided Ben into the sitting room. John, so steady and kind and caring, and oh God, what was he thinking?  _ That’s your boss, you blithering idiot. You can’t think stuff like that! What the fuck is wrong with you? _ He blinked and looked away.

“For the love of Christ, Jones,” John said, sitting him down on the sofa. “What were you thinking, walking home in this cold with God knows how much alcohol in your bloodstream?”

“I waited for you,” Ben said, hearing the petulance in his voice and instantly hating it. “You didn’t come.”

“Yes, well I wasn’t expecting the bloody Causton Christmas Parade to block half the routes into town,” John said, sitting down next to him. “I came as fast as I could. Can you imagine what went through my head when the bartender said you’d decided to walk home? I was having visions of you collapsed on the side of the road, freezing to death.” He reached down and lifted Ben’s legs onto the sofa, then began pulling off his shoes. “I just hope to God you didn’t get frostbite.”

Ben winced as John peeled off his cold, wet socks. His feet felt raw and tender, and they were starting to tingle rather painfully.

“Where’s Sarah?” he asked, more to distract himself than anything.

“In Brighton visiting her mum,” John answered. “She’ll be back tomorrow.” He took one of Ben’s feet in both hands and began pressing on it gently. “Can you feel that?” he asked. 

“Not really.”

John pressed a little harder and Ben yelped. “Oy! Be careful, that hurts.”

“Sorry.” John released his foot, a slight smile on his face. “Well, you likely don’t have frostbite. But we should probably get you in the bath just to be safe.”

“In the…” Ben’s brain was having trouble processing. “I don’t need a bloody  _ bath _ , John. I’m fine.”

“Of the two of us,” John said dryly, “I am the one with sound judgement at the moment. And I say you need a bath.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben gets a bath. Enough said.

John wasted no time. He went straight upstairs, Sykes following close behind him, and after a few moments Ben heard the water running. He sank back against the sofa cushions and closed his eyes. This was all happening too fast. Come to think of it, he wasn’t even sure  _ what  _ was happening right now. John had tracked him down and bundled him into the car, but instead of taking Ben home, he’d taken Ben to  _ his  _ home. That didn’t make sense. And now he was running a bath, which made even less sense. It was his  _ feet  _ that were half-frozen, not the rest of him. A bucket of warm water would have done just as well.

It was all very confusing.

“Can you walk?” John asked.

Ben’s eyes flew open. Shit, he must be  _ really _ drunk— he hadn’t even heard John come back downstairs. He made an effort to stand, but as soon as his feet touched the floor, he dropped back down on the sofa, wincing. “Fuck.”

“Here.” John crouched down. “Let me help you.” He put one of Ben’s arms around his shoulders and slowly pulled him upright. “Put your weight on me.”

Slowly and awkwardly they hobbled upstairs, Sykes leading the way. Ben half-expected John to buckle underneath his weight— his commander wasn’t exactly a star athlete, after all— but he didn’t. He remained strong and steady the entire way, for which Ben was immensely grateful. His feet were killing him by the time they reached the top of the stairs, and he was only too glad to collapse on the toilet seat while John turned off the water.

“Right,” John said, once he’d stuck his hand in the water to test the temperature. “Clothes off, all of them.”

“Bloody hell, John.” Ben let out a nervous laugh. “You could at least buy me a drink first.” Then his ears turned white hot as he realized what he’d said. 

John didn’t look shocked— just a little surprised. Then he smiled, and Ben’s stomach turned over.

“Normally, I would,” he said. “But I think you’ve had enough for one evening.” He knelt down in front of Ben and began unbuttoning his shirt. 

Ben opened his mouth to protest, and then he suddenly realized he was too tired to argue. If John wanted to do this weird little caretaker routine, fine. If he wanted to get Ben naked and wet and fuck him senseless, fine. He was past caring about right and wrong anymore.

“So you  _ would _ buy me a drink,” he said as John peeled off his shirt, one sleeve at a time, then unbuckled Ben’s belt. “You know, if we just met at some bar and you weren’t married and all that.”

John let out a soft chuckle. “Being married isn’t the problem, Ben.”

“Eh?” Ben’s head was swimming. John was so close to him, smelling of sweat and aftershave, his hands gentle on Ben’s thighs— when the fuck had his hands moved down  _ there _ ?— that he could hardly think. “What d’you mean?”

John’s eyes were soft and warm, gazing back into Ben’s own with something like affection. No, not affection. Ben knew John’s affectionate look and this was not it. This was something stronger, deeper, more intense.

“If you weren’t drunk as a lord right now, I’d explain,” John said after a pause. “Unfortunately, I think we’ll need to wait a bit before having that conversation.” He patted Ben’s thigh, then rose to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get these off. You’re starting to shiver.”

Ben hesitated only a moment before he stood up, biting back a yelp of pain as his feet touched the ice cold floor. Quickly John guided Ben’s hands onto his shoulders for support, then gently slid Ben’s trousers down, then his pants.

Ben couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt so embarrassed, but John was quite discreet. He didn’t stare or leer or make lewd comments, just bent down and tugged Ben’s feet out of the pile of clothes, then helped him into the tub.

A small groan escaped Ben’s lips as he sank into the warm water. It felt so good on his cold, aching body that he immediately forgot what he’d been embarrassed about.

“How’s that?” John inquired.

“Fucking amazing,” Ben sighed, leaning his head back against the smooth curve of the tub and closing his eyes.

“Good,” John said. “You should stay in there for about fifteen minutes or so. And you need to hydrate as well.”

Ben heard him walk across the floor and turn on the sink tap. Within moments he was back, holding a cup of water to Ben’s lips. Ben drank eagerly, spilling some of it down his chin.

“Slowly,” John said. “Easy does it.” He put one hand on the back of Ben’s head, cradling it gently, and Ben felt a warm glow spread through him that had nothing to do with the bath or the alcohol.

“Why are you so good to me,” he mumbled after he’d finished off the glass of water. “You and Sarah both. You’re so good to me.”

“Because you deserve it,” John said, setting the cup down and picking up a washcloth. He dipped it into the water, wrung it out, and began dabbing it against Ben’s face, wiping away the sweat and grime of a long day. “You don’t take the best care of yourself, you know.”

To his horror, Ben felt a lump rise in his throat.  _ Don’t cry, you stupid blighter. Don’t cry in front of your boss, damn it.  _ But John wasn’t his boss right now, was he? How could he be when he was giving Ben the same kind of care and devotion someone would give to their newborn baby? Everything was so soft and warm and gentle— the sloshing water, the light smell of lavender soap, John’s hands— that he could hardly bear it.

“You all right, Ben?” John asked softly, pausing in his ministrations to peer closely at his face.

The concern in his voice made Ben want to weep. “No,” he said hoarsely, blinking back sudden tears. “No, I’m not.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

Ben raised his eyes to John’s and felt his last shred of self-control fade away. “Yes,” he said, leaning forward. “You can kiss me.”


End file.
